


name the child innocence

by Ro29



Series: on learning to fly [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Baby Boba Fett, Boba Fett Needs A Hug, Child Death, Child Neglect, Euthanasia, Force-Sensitive Clone Troopers (Star Wars), Force-Sensitives have Wings, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Harm to Children, Jango Fett has Issues, Jango is not a good person necessarily, Jango loves Boba, Kamino is awful, No Bashing, POV Jango Fett, Single Parent Jango Fett, The Clones Need a Hug, Wingfic, doesn't know how to feel about the rest of them, myths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28780521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ro29/pseuds/Ro29
Summary: "Whatever," he says, "what are they?"Nala Se huffs and sneers out a single word, like it is a personal offense.“Wings.”
Relationships: Boba Fett & Jango Fett
Series: on learning to fly [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036284
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68





	name the child innocence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aroacejoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroacejoot/gifts), [GraceEliz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/gifts).



> Thank you to Tink for the encouragement and for the help in worldbuilding, as well as for being the reason this bit exists at all XD 
> 
> Thank you to Grace for the help with some of the Mando'a and creating of some of the words!
> 
> Anyways before we begin I need to preface that this fic is not Mando bashing, nor is it For or Against Jango Fett in particular. The beliefs stated in this fic are not ones held by me or anyone else who helped me with this. It is just the way the Mando myths and beliefs ended up evolving after the Mando and Jedi wars, helped by the fact wings meant force-sensitives were easy to tell apart and, furthermore, aren't held by every Mando. The scale for these beliefs is one that most Mando's exist somewhere on, but most nowadays shade more towards the middle with a slight leaning towards one side rather than the extreme ends. It's just that in this case we are in the head of a Jango Fett who is trying to justify his own actions to himself, he's fucking up and trying to deny it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Please let me know if you think I missed something in the tags.
> 
> title is based off a quote accredited to walt disney

He looks at the tubes, all of them with a baby growing inside — clones, he reminds himself, just clones, there is only one who will be his child, his baby, and none of these clones are them — and ignores the part of himself that looks at them, so little, and so helpless, and wants to claim them as _aliit_.

They are tools, not children. Weapons, not sentient beings, the _Kaminiise_ have already assured him of it.

They will be born — decanted — before his child is, and he will be in charge of the clones’ training until his child is finished growing.

That is the deal.

They are not his children.

He is not their _buir_ , he is not their _aliit_ and they will not be sentient enough to even want anything like an _aliit_ or a _buir_.

Still, he looks at the tiny bodies slowly growing and feels something like an ache in his chest that he doesn’t let show on his face, keeps his face blank and pushes any thought of a clan bigger than two away.

(The batch is a failure, none of them live past their decanting, and most of them are dead far before then.

The _Kaminiise_ go back to the drawing board, messing with Jango’s genetics to find a suitable combination, and Jango watches with blank eyes as the tiny bodies are disposed of.)

* * *

It’s on the third try that the clone’s genetics — _Jango’s altered genetics_ , he’s uncomfortable with the thought, pushes it away — are stable enough that the batch survives up to their decanting.

Jango is not there when they are decanted, doesn’t see them for over a ten-day. He is too busy holding his new son, tiny and breakable and _his_ and oh so fragile. He is too busy learning how to care for him, how to hold him and keep him safe and happy and alive to care about the clones.

He has his child, and that is all that matters.

When he finally goes to check on the clones, he notices with only a little shock that there are less of them than before. When he asks about it he is informed that one of them simply didn’t grow correctly and needed to be disposed of.

The rest of the batch, they inform him, did not suffer the same defects, they are fine and healthy.

Jango doesn’t wince, doesn’t think about one of those clones, just a little bigger than his new son and just as fragile, being thrown away for something so small.

He pushes it out of his mind, focuses on the clones who are already around the same range as a normal 3 standard child.

Normal, the longnecks assure him, they are being grown to that age before decanting and their growth is further enhanced to ensure they reach peak physical health for fighting.

They will be ready for training soon, he is told. And he watches as the clones are grabbed with uncaring hands to be further tested.

He ignores the voice in his head that sounds like Jaster, that tells him this is wrong.

He is not a good man, he knows this isn’t _right_ , but it’s a deal, just a normal contract, and he keeps his contracts.

He doesn’t feel anything towards these weapons other than disdain.

He has a son to love, that’s all he needs. Not these toy soldiers who wear his face.

He turns away with a nod, ignores the distant sound of children crying.

* * *

It is the first time that he is present for the decanting of a batch that it happens, one of the clones is decanted with something on his back, growing, and Jango notes the distaste clear on Nala Se’s face.

“A mutation?” He asks, distant and largely uncaring.

Nala Se huffs, “Yes, unfortunately. It makes the product undesirable—the extra appendages are far too bothersome. It’s a problem we’ve been trying to fix.”

Jango watches as the uncaring hands of the scientists sweep the clone off somewhere, ignores the part of him that was once _Mand’alor_ and compares the small child to the baby asleep in his rooms. He snorts, reads between the lines and hears what Nala Se doesn’t say, ‘ _It’s a mutation that has happened too often.’_

“So your science was wrong.” He says, blunt.

Nala Se is quiet, made of ice cold anger, and she purses her lips, “Our science is perfect, _Fett_ , it is simply something that can’t be altered out.” she doesn’t quite sneer but Jango knows contempt when he hears it, “ _That_ ,” she states, voice clipped and controlled in her anger, “is a failing on your genetics.”

Jango grits his teeth, takes the insult to his parents silently and doesn’t gut her like he wants to.

Truly, the amount of control he has should be applauded. He carefully rolls his eyes, makes a note to be a nuisance to her from now on.

He is not a good man, but he _is_ , it must be admitted, quite good at holding a grudge.

“Whatever,” he says, narrows his eyes as he gets one last look at the clone’s back before he’s gone, taken to have tests run before it’s decommissioned and disposed of probably, and frowns, “what even are they?”

Nala Se huffs and sneers out a single word, like it is a personal offense.

“ _Wings_.”

* * *

There is an old Mandalorian myth, one told to every child, that is passed down through generations, from _buir_ to _ad_ , Finder to foundling. And inevitably, all children will ask, at least once, especially if they are a little older, whether or not it is true.

This is the answer given, every time.

_“Does it matter if it’s true? Isn’t it enough to know that it could be? So be careful and be cautious, for you never know for sure.”_

Jango’s father and mother used to take turns telling it to both Arla and him. Had told them over and over again how important it was to remember.

It starts, as most old Mandalorian myths and stories do, with an old clan who were prosperous, and who followed the path of the _Ka’ra,_ who were _Manda_ through and through.

This clan was just and ruled with a kind hand, protected each other and their neighbors from those who would do them wrong.

They lived well, until one day a stranger came to their home, a cloak around them that seemed to weigh them down, tie them to the earth.

‘ _Might I stay a while?’_ the stranger asked, _‘Just until I find something?_ ’ and because the clan was kind and just, they said yes.

Now, the clan was wary, for of course they were, the stranger did not follow their customs and often said things that seemed strange, that made no sense, but there was no reason to turn the stranger away, not when they helped with the _ad_ and only needed to rest until they found what they were looking for.

_‘Ah, this cloak weighs heavy on me,’_ the stranger would say, and the _verde_ would frown to each other and ask, _‘Why not then take it off, traveler?’_

_‘It keeps me safe,’_ the stranger returned, and the clan nodded, for this they understood, their armour was the same.

' _Now this earth is full of dead things,’_ the stranger would say, looking across the land, and the _verde_ would frown at each other, because their crops were flourishing and they had had a plentiful harvest.

They looked to the stranger again, ‘ _What do you mean, traveler? This is healthy land.’_

The stranger shook their head, ‘ _Not for long.’_

This unsettled the _verde_ but the stranger smiled at them and suddenly none of them could understand how they were ever wary of the stranger in the first place.

Not long after though, the harvest time came and the land yielded nothing but dead things, and the people began to grow ill.

And the _verde_ grew wary of the stranger, for they had predicted this, hadn’t they? And how was that possible?

Not long after, the _alor’s riduur_ , who had been with child for many a month, fell into labour.

But here is the beginning of the tragedy, most of the clan’s _baar’ur_ had fallen ill, and though they knew the illness was nothing, _k’atini,_ none of them wished to put the little _ad_ into danger.

So when the stranger stepped forward, still draped in their cloak, with a kind smile and offered their aid as a healer, the clan accepted.

The delivery was a hard one and in the end, the _ad’s_ _buir_ looked down at the child they’d delivered, and they knew fear.

For you see — _and this was where some_ buir _had to stop, for explaining the concept of_ ga’kyr’ad _and_ ga’kyrayc _to the young was difficult and the_ buir _might not belong to either factions of thought, but an_ ad _must know their history, so the_ buir _will continue_ _on_ — there’s an old way of thinking, one that has continued on and which makes this story the tragedy it is.

A child born with wings, of a species where such appendages are not normally present, is either thought _ga’kyr’ad_ —a child with wings that will lead to danger or death for the whole clan but who still possess a soul—or they are thought _ga’kyrayc,_ that is, a child who is already dead, one with no soul, killed by the wings before they ever breathed.

And the child in the stranger’s arms had wings upon its back, little ones that shook and trembled in the open air, and the stranger's cloak had been removed at some point, wings and feathers making themselves known.

And it was then that the _alor’riduur_ realized what the stranger was.

_Ga’kyr’jorir_ , _jetii._

* * *

_Wings_ , he thinks, dispassionate and detached, _wings_.

There are children crafted from his genes with wings.

(That is no child, the clan head spits in the stories, _ga’kyrayc._ Soulless, slain by the wings growing from its flesh like tumors.)

That is not a child, Jango thinks to himself, the child is dead, gone, _ga'kyrayc_. There is no child at all.

They’re not children in the first place he thinks, so what does it matter if they have no soul?

Clones, he thinks to himself, shoves desperation down where his rage lives. They are _clones_ , there is only one child made from his genes, and he is _Jango’s_ , he has a soul, there are no wings on that baby’s back, no death or destruction in his eyes..

He goes back to his rooms blankly, distantly, floats on something maybe denial and all disbelief.

He gathers Boba’s tiny, wingless, _alive_ , body to his chest, holds him like the precious thing he is.

Clones do not have a need for a soul, it matters not whether they were dead before their first breath.

Jango presses a kiss to Boba’s forehead, doesn’t think of Jaster or the way he never really believed in either _ga'kyrayc_ or _ga’kyr’ad_ , always fell more towards the middle of the debates.

He holds his only son and doesn’t think about how he is killing the memory of the child Jaster loved.

Jango Fett is not a good man, hasn’t been one for a very long time. The time for regret and remorse have passed, he’s made his choices.

Boba fusses and begins to wail and Jango lets soothing his son take precedence over a moral dilemma and an age-long debate over a winged child’s soul.

* * *

The _ga’kyrayc_ is gone when he next checks on the clones.

Jango watches as the med droid feeds the ones who are left with detachment and pushes the memory of Jaster’s voice saying, “ _an_ ad _is an_ ad _, the wings don’t kill them, the wings do nothing but show us they have the potential to wield the heart of_ Manda _,_ _that’s all it is Jango, don’t let either these groups of thought convince you it’s alright to harm an_ ad _,”_ away.

Jaster is dead, and has been dead for a long time.

Jango has made his decision already, and there is only one person still living who could ever hope to convince him — who could ever hope to maybe change his mind on something — and that person is still baby-soft and tiny, still not in the speaking stage of life.

One of the clones begins to cry and Jango’s arm twitches slightly, to soothe an _ik’aad’s_ cries.

The med droid picks the tiny clone up, holds it and feeds and burps it before placing it down.

It doesn’t stop crying and Jango hear’s Boba’s cries overlapped with the clone’s, it’s a dissonance that ends when one of the scientists grows annoyed with the crying, pinches baby-soft, sensitive skin until the clone finally quiets.

There is rage buried somewhere in his chest, next to where he buried the _Mand’alor,_ and the good man, left them to die on a spice ship.

Jango says nothing.

* * *

The myth ends with the _jetii_ disappearing, taking the winged child away in the night and with them, the illness and the dead land.

It never tells of what happened to the child, or what might have been if the _jetii_ had never taken it away.

There are two schools of thought among Mandalorians; when a child whose species has no wings is born with them, it is, uniformly, tragedy no matter what.

If you believe the child is dead, stillborn almost, for all that the body keeps breathing, then you leave them in the care of someone who will care for the thing they are now. Someone who will keep the dead _ad_ safe and love them despite their lack of soul.

If you believe there is still hope, if you believe you can save the child’s soul, then the wings need to go.

It is almost kinder, to think them dead and soulless, than to believe they need saving.

* * *

There are more clones with wings, more little things dead before they even draw their first breath and Jango thinks if he were a better man, he’d do something to stop this.

He doesn’t, any winged clones decanted — not a common thing, but happening too often for anyone’s comfort — is decommissioned and Jango doesn’t look at tiny bodies that could be _ad_.

Boba cries every night, terrifying things that grate on the ears and stab him through the heart.

He goes back to his rooms, the day that an entire batch of winged clones is decanted, and is met with Boba’s wails almost immediately.

He paces in his rooms, holds Boba desperately to his chest, rocks him back and forth and does everything he can to soothe him.

It doesn’t help, and Boba’s cries only grow louder, and Jango feels like he is trying to swim in the ocean with his full kit on. Sinking under the weight of it despite how desperately he tries to stop it.

He doesn’t know what to do, Boba won’t stop _crying_ and it is tearing out bits of Jango’s heart the longer it goes on.

They are not the regular sobs of a child, Jango thinks, a little hysteric, they _can’t_ be.

He has never heard Boba sound like this before, this terrified haunting wail is something that sinks into Jango’s bones and makes his ears ring and his skin crawl.

Boba doesn’t sleep the rest of the night, just sobs and sobs and sobs until he passes out, tears and snot sticky on his face.

And Jango cradles him in his arms, hushes him and whispers sweet nothings into his ear, hums half-forgotten lullabies until his voice goes hoarse.

Nothing works and Jango thinks this must be what it feels like to be a parent, useless and trying your best and not knowing what’s right or wrong.

No one warned him about this part of being a parent, and Jango hates it, wants to fix everything and make sure Boba is nothing but happy and content.

He doesn’t know how to when he doesn’t know what’s _wrong_.

He holds his child, in the sterile rooms of Kamino, and tries not to give the voices of his heart that he’s long buried too much power.

All that will bring is regret, and regret has no place in a contract.

**Author's Note:**

>  _aliit_ : Family  
>  _buir_ : parent  
>  _Kaminiise_ : the Kaminoans  
>  _ad_ : child  
>  _Ka'ra_ : stars - ancient Mandalorian myth - ruling council of fallen kings  
>  _Manda_ : the collective soul or heaven - the state of being Mandalorian in mind, body and spirit - also supreme, overarching, guardian-like  
>  _verde_ : soldiers  
>  _alor_ : leader, chief, *officer*, constable, boss  
>  _riduur_ : spouse  
>  _baar’ur_ : medic  
>  _k'atini_ : it's only pain  
>  _ga’kyr’ad_ : wing(ed) death-child  
>  _ga'kyrayc_ : wing killed, also used by some as a term as a sort of retroactive stillborn  
>  _alor’riduur_ : the Alor's spouse  
>  _Ga’kyr’jorir_ : wing(ed) death-bearer  
>  _jetii_ : Jedi  
>  _ik’aad's_ : baby's (child 3 and under)  
>  _Mand’alor_ : sole ruler, the Ruler of Mandalore
> 
> I'm interested to see if anyone caught the hints i left in this one.
> 
> If you want to find me other places I have a [writing tumblr](https://rose-blooms-red.tumblr.com) and a [fandom tumblr](https://themessofthecentury.tumblr.com)
> 
> Please come yell at me about Star Wars and DC!


End file.
